“What would you say to Ben if he said he would finger Saddam Hussein’s old germ-warfare plants…the ones that could wipe out half the Middle East…or Europe…or the U.S. if you would spare his life? What would you say? I’m not saying he could. I’m just making the point. If we execute, we get nothing. If we wring him out, we might get a whole bunch of Christmas presents. What would you say?”
“I’d spare him. And take his damned knowledge and use him as long as he was useful. Not a day longer.”
“And that, my dear, is why agents like him rarely get executed.”
“There are no agents like him,” said Bill. “He’s completely different. He’s a one-man demolition squad. And he’s brought endless desolation to endless families.”
“But there is one difference.”
“What is it?”
“Hardly anyone knows who he is, or what he has done. The public do not even know the Jefferson was hit by a foreign terrorist. We’ve never admitted it. Neither do they know there was a lunatic sitting in the middle of the Atlantic knocking down passenger aircraft. Certainly not that same lunatic. In the collective minds of 250 million Americans, including the press, and all but a few of the military, no one knows the bastard even exists.”
“True,” said Bill Baldridge. “It just seems such a gigantic secret to keep under wraps…and if he somehow escaped and got out from under our control and did something dreadful…like blow up the Pentagon or something…then it would all come out…that this administration had been working under cover with the most evil terrorist in the history of the world, and now look what’s happened?…You’d end up more reviled than Ben.”
“That is indeed a risk. But I’d cope with my disgrace in the private knowledge that I had probably saved thousands of lives and that I had acted in accordance with my beliefs and my conscience.”
“You’re a big man, Arnold Morgan,” said Laura. “Just don’t let him get out of your control.”
“Not I,” said the admiral. “And when I’m done with him, I’ll probably still have him eliminated.”
“That’s my man,” said Bill. “And that’s the way to look at it. Ben Adnam deserves nothing. Certainly not fairness. Ask the friends of Martin Beckman.”
“The biggest problem with Ben,” said the admiral, “is his unbelievable cleverness. When you think about it, he’s been a couple of jumps ahead of everyone in all his projects…ahead of Israel…ahead of me…I suspect ahead of the Iraqis…certainly ahead of the U.S. Navy…and the Royal Navy…and, even now, of the entire U.S. government. Remember, he came here determined to get in front of people in high office to plead for his life…and he did it. First time. He was a couple of jumps in front of the immigration authorities…a couple of jumps ahead of the CIA guys…certainly a couple of jumps ahead of me, again.”
“He wasn’t always far in front of me,” said Bill, quietly.
“No, he wasn’t. But he was far enough. You did identify him. And basically caught him, or at least you caught his ship, but only with his help. You and Laura’s dad, between you…the problem is, is he just too clever, and too devious for any of us to work with?”
“Probably,” said Bill. “But you have to try and wring him out. And then decide, I guess, what further use he can be.”
“That’s about it,” said the admiral. “And now I think we have to get him out of here.” He rose from the armchair and put on his coat. He and Bill headed for the door, and twenty minutes later the Black Hawk was revving up and ready to go. All eight men were strapped in, Ben Adnam securely bound on the floor between the Marine staff sergeant and his corporal.
Bill and Laura watched them rise above the ranch and then above the prairie, and the sun came out briefly as the Army helicopter set a course southeast and clattered away toward Wichita, where the Gulfstream 4 awaited. About a dozen people in all of the world knew that the United States was in control of the arch terrorist who had caused havoc above the North Atlantic.
0930. Three Days Later, Monday, April 17.
The Memorial Garden.
CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia.
Admiral Morgan, Stephen Hart, and Frank Reidel were seated together on the wrought-iron garden bench in front of the pond. It was one of the first warm spring mornings, the third day of the relentless grilling of Ben Adnam by the CIA’s professional interrogators, some of whom had been flown in from the Middle East to test, and retest the validity of the Iraqi Intelligence officer’s information. Thus far he had neither cracked, nor so far as they could tell, lied to them in any way. But on the previous evening, tired and battered by the endless questioning, the commander had said something to Morgan which he plainly believed was a critical card.
“Tomorrow, Admiral, I will give you something that will show you once and for all that I am sincere in my desire to switch my allegiance to your country. I have told you my price is my life, but tomorrow I will write something out for you. Then you can decide for yourself my usefulness to you.”
The second night of interrogation had ended at 0230, long after Admiral Morgan left. Commander Adnam was due to reappear at 1015, and the admiral and the two CIA chiefs had agreed to meet here, in this outdoor cradle of American patriotism and loyalty, to discuss tactics.
It was peaceful in the garden. And the constant cascade of the falling water broke the silence and muffled their words. Admiral Morgan was reflective as he stared at the fieldstone wall around the pond. It was inlaid with an almost obscure bronze plaque on which were inscribed the words:
IN REMEMBRANCE OF THOSE WHOSE UNHERALDED EFFORTS SERVED A GRATEFUL NATION.
Whenever he read them, a chill went through Arnold Morgan, and he thought again of the terrible dangers unknown American agents had faced over the years. And he wished, irrationally, that he could somehow meet them again, right there, and rise to his feet, and shake the hand of every last one of them. They were his kind of people. Hard, unsung heroes, concerned with the well-being of their country, never personal glory.
The three men chatted for twenty minutes, trying to decide what course of action to take. Whether to eliminate the mass murderer in their midst and say nothing, thus avoiding the awkward problems of having to alert the general public to the known danger they had been dealing with since 2002, and risking exposure as complete incompetents. Or to come clean, admit everything, and put the terrorist on trial for crimes that carried a compulsory death penalty. Finally, there was the enticing prospect of saying nothing, utilizing Adnam to carry out a few harrowing strikes against the Islamic Fundamentalist regimes of the Middle East.
All three options had support. But it was the latter one that intrigued them most.
At 1005 they returned to the main building and made their way up to the interrogation room. They all picked up coffee on the way, and were sitting down when Commander Adnam was escorted in by four Marine guards. He was handcuffed, but free to walk in the direction the guards indicated.
Once seated, the bracelets were removed while he placed his hands on the table in front of him, where there were pens and writing pads. He immediately began to write neatly at the top of one of the yellow pages. His message was short, and he requested it be torn out and handed to Admiral Morgan.
“201200APR06 18.55S, 52.20E. Refueling.”
The admiral looked up sharply, and snapped, “Unseen?”
“Yessir.”
“Indian Ocean, right? Whereabouts.”
“Two hundred miles due east of Madagascar.”
“No bullshit?”
“Nossir. This is another way to help convince you of my worth.”
Admiral Morgan left the room and charged straight into the office of the deputy director. He grabbed the secure line and told the switchboard, “GET ME ADMIRAL MULLIGAN RIGHT NOW…EITHER IN THE PENTAGON OR WHEREVER HE MAY BE.”
It took five minutes to locate the Chief of Naval Operations, who at the time was on board the cruiser Arkansas in the navy yards at Norfolk, Virginia. And the conversatio
n was brief.
“You secure, Joe?”
“No.”
“Go to SUBLANT right now and call me secure at Stephen Hart’s office, Langley.”
There were very few people those days who gave orders to Admiral Mulligan. None who spoke to him quite like that. But he and Morgan were old friends, and Joe Mulligan knew that was just Arnold’s way. And he also knew the edge of gravity in the voice of the national security advisor when he heard it,
The admiral left Arkansas immediately, and a waiting Navy staff car took him on the short drive to the headquarters of SUBLANT. Reconnected with Arnold Morgan, he had to stay right on top of his game to keep up with the President’s right-hand man, who he knew was now deep into the interrogation of Commander Adnam.
“Joe. I’m not saying we’ve cracked him. But he’s just come up with something…the position of HMS Unseen at midday this Wednesday. She’s gonna be in the Indian Ocean, which seems about right given she probably left the North Atlantic at the end of February…he has her position 18.55 South, 52.20 East. He says it’s 200 miles due east of Madagascar. I’m just looking at a map now…it’s 1,500 miles from DG…can we make it?…1200 Thursday, April 20…yeah…yeah…okay Joe, I’ll leave it with you. Let’s go…I’d prefer them alive…but I’ll take ’em dead if necessary.”
CRASH. The phone went down like a sledgehammer as Morgan marched resolutely back to the room where Ben Adnam was being systematically wrung out. Or at least a substantial group of people were trying to wring him out, the trouble being that Ben Adnam gave the impression of telling nothing that he did not want to tell.
Admiral Mulligan conferred quickly with COMSUBPAC, Vice Admiral Alan Cattee in Pearl Harbor, formally requesting that USS Columbia be released to Black Ops Control. They opened up a conference line to the Battle Group that operated around the 100,000-ton Nimitz-Class carrier Ronald Reagan, which was stationed off Diego Garcia for a few more hours. The vice admiral did the talking, on the secure line, and was patched through to Admiral Art Barry, who commanded the Group.
The former captain of the Arkansas checked his watch, which said almost 2000, nine hours ahead of Washington. He confirmed Columbia’s position, and said, “She’s ready to go anywhere. To make that location by midday on Thursday, she’ll need to clear DG by midnight. Leave it with me.”
Commander Mike Krause and his crew had already had a long day, testing a new sonar fitting, out in the deep water south of the American Naval base. He and his XO, Lt. Commander Jerry Curran, had dined together on board, but some of the crew were ashore, on base but ashore.
The U.S. Navy is trained to move quickly. The entire crew was located, and was on board the submarine inside two hours. At 2345 Commander Krause signaled the engineers to answer bells. Up on the casing, still warm in the hot tropical night, the deck crew prepared to cast her off. The Officer of the Deck ordered, “Let go all lines…pull off…”
And the tugs began to haul the jet-black 7,000-ton Los Angeles-Class nuclear boat away from her jetty.
“Engines backing two-thirds…the ship is under way…ahead one-third…” The commands were succinct as always, spoken calmly from the bridge by Mike Krause, the tall New Englander from Vermont, who had previously served as the Executive Officer in Columbia.
And now the great bulk of the nuclear boat moved forward down the channel, running fair at 12 knots, out toward the open water of the Indian Ocean, which surrounds the island of Diego Garcia. America’s sole operational Navy base in this part of the world is situated bang in the middle of absolutely nowhere, 1,000 miles south-southwest of the tip of the Indian subcontinent, 7 degrees south of the equator, 1,600 miles east of the Horn of Africa. It feels like the hot end of the earth, and the nights are dark and silent. It is not the favorite place of United States Navy personnel.
Commander Krause ordered a course of two-two-five, heading southwest away from the Chagos Archipelago, a group of towering underwater peaks that rise up from an ocean depth of 16,000 feet between DG and the southern end of the Carlsberg Ridge.
Navigation Officer Lieutenant Richard Farrington, who stood on the bridge with the captain, put the total distance to the search area at 1,587 miles. Columbia’s two nuclear-powered turbines, which generated 35,000 horsepower, would have to drive her at a high-speed 27-knot average, twenty-four hours a day, to give them a chance. That meant well over 600 miles a day, which the commander thought was touch-and-go, even with no stops. Six miles off the island, he ordered her deep “Make your depth 400 feet…all ahead flank…steer two-two-five.”
Columbia thus raced toward the southwest. On the first day her objectives were simple; she wanted to be over the line of 70 degrees longitude by midday, and out over the north end of the Mid-Indian Ridge by midnight. On Wednesday it was even simpler; she needed to be across the Nazareth Bank, south of Mauritius, and the 60-degree line of longitude, before midnight. That would give her a reasonable ten-hour run to the search area. All of that assumed there would not be the slightest problem in running. The only slowdown factor would be periodic moves to the surface for GPS checks and satellite comms.
And they very nearly made it. A CO2 scrubber went on the blink after twelve hours, which cost them ninety minutes fixing it and ventilating the boat afterward. But they were only two hours late at the Nazareth Bank, and they made good speed into the area west of the 53-degree line of longitude, where Columbia came to periscope depth. Lieutenant Farrington had them bang on 18.55 South, and at 1139 on Thursday morning, as they slowed down to come to periscope depth, they picked up some odd noises directly ahead. Through the periscope they thought they saw something about 10 miles off their port bow…but it was difficult to identify.
The captain himself finally expressed the view that it could have been the fast-disappearing fin of a submarine, beam on. They just caught a glimpse, and it was gone. POSIDENT was very difficult. It could have been an Upholder-Class submarine, but it had disappeared before he saw it, just as Columbia had come to periscope depth. The fact was they were too far away to do much about it. Except watch and proceed cautiously in the same direction, using passive sonar for the moment. Active was not an option, for fear of alerting their target.
But they never saw it again. Columbia continued her careful approach, the sonar revealing nothing. And it was with great reluctance that the American team had to admit to themselves they had missed their quarry. The carbon dioxide scrubber, which allowed them to breathe, had cost them the mission.
For half an hour they moved forward, now steering course three-one-five. Still on passive, still watching the screen for the slightest indication. But it was to no avail. HMS Unseen possessed all of the most diabolical attributes of stealth and silence that were common to the Russian Kilo. If she stayed slow at around five knots, she was literally impossible to hear. And Columbia was hearing nothing. The only information Mike Krause and his sonar team had was that the submarine was probably an Upholder, clearly the tiresomely named Unseen. She had showed up right on time at 18.55 South, 52.20 East, her last-known position. And she was last seen heading north 200 miles off the east coast of Madagascar. Destination unknown.
The CO knew that he probably could open up on active sonar and pick up his fleeing opponent. But that course of action had its dangers. Unseen was a very quiet, possibly hostile submarine, and she could be within 10 miles of him. He had been told not to sink anyone without POSIDENT, and he could not swear that he had it. And there was the possibility of a preemptive shot against him, at short range, with short notice. Mike Krause was not too happy about any of that.
And it was with some irritation that the CO came back to PD at 1300 and accessed the satellite to inform SUBLANT he had traveled flat out, but had been too late. By about fifteen minutes. To give chase now on active sonar, Mike Krause felt he needed new rules of engagement. Caution was his watchword. He was no Boomer Dunning.
By now Admiral Morgan had joined Joe Mulligan on the line to Alan Cattee in Hawaii, and news of the n
ear miss spread an aura of gloom, lightened only by the fact that Ben Adnam had certainly provided data.
Nonetheless, Admiral Morgan decided to test him again, and he went back into the interrogation room and barked at the captured terrorist. “Sonofabitch was not there…the goddamned ocean was deserted…you told me there would be a fueling tanker in the area and my team found nothing. If you’re bullshitting me, Adnam, you might be spending your last day on this earth.”
If Adnam’s nerve was going, he betrayed nothing. “Admiral Morgan, I gave you the best information I have. But you know and I know that a refueling point can change at any time. The time and position can be pushed forward or back. My reading of this situation is that the submarine had already fueled and gone by, and is still proceeding north for possibly another 3,000 miles, into the deep waters of the Arabian Sea toward the Strait of Hormuz.”
He was uncertain of the precise destination, but he knew the projected route. When he had left Unseen the plan was to run north in shallower coastal water toward Oman. He thought it unlikely that Iraq would be able to keep the submarine, and that they might scuttle it in the Arabian Sea. Alternately, he believed it possible they might sell it to another Middle Eastern country, possibly Iran, which had superior submarine facilities, and which might pay very highly for such a boat.
“It’s a pretty goddamned hot property for that, isn’t it,” grunted Morgan.
“True, but ships can be altered. And Iran has excellent facilities for working on submarines. I do not, however, have firm information about their intentions. The plan was always that I should leave the ship in the Atlantic. When my mission was complete.”
Either way, Commander Adnam had indicated that the newly refueled Unseen would make for a point 400 miles east of Mombasa. From there he said it would run up the long coast of Somalia, past the Horn of Africa, and across the Gulf of Aden into the national waters of Oman, west of the ops area for the American CVBGs.
Admiral Art Barry’s Battle Group was steaming north under the clear skies of the southern Arabian Basin, way south of the Gulf of Oman, in depths of more than seventeen thousand feet. The giant carrier Ronald Reagan, pitching heavily forward, through great ocean swells, at over 20 knots, was surrounded by a formidable arsenal of Naval firepower, two cruisers, three destroyers, four guided-missile frigates, a nuclear submarine, and a big fleet replenishment ship.
H.M.S. Unseen am-3 Page 40